


Warmth

by sallyamongpoison



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Cuddling in Bed, M/M, mention of red lyrium, old friends and lovers, written for art
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-08
Updated: 2016-05-08
Packaged: 2018-06-07 06:12:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6789628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sallyamongpoison/pseuds/sallyamongpoison
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Samson is under Cullen's watch after being taken into the Inquisition, and they both struggle with sleeping and staying warm.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Warmth

Once upon a time, not terribly long ago, Samson had two heartbeats. He had two heartbeats and a song in him that had nothing to do with the chantry songs they’d learned as recruits. That heartbeat gave him power, made him strong, and (though it was secondary) it kept him  _ warm _ . It was another part of him, part of him that allowed him to work longer and harder and better, but now it was gone. It was gone and even though it hadn’t been that long that he’d lived with it Samson found it hard to live  _ without _ it. 

In the night, sometimes, he woke from dreams where he could still feel the lyrium beating in his chest and coursing through his blood. In those dreams he was strong again, not as sickly and weak, and he mourned the loss when he opened his eyes. He would huddle under piles of blankets and furs, sweating and shaking, but they weren’t enough. Nothing was ever enough. He thought he might die right where he was without that song and that second heartbeat in his chest.

Ferelden was cold. Anyone with enough wits to form the words knew that much, but Samson could never remember feeling it as acutely as he did now. His blood was thin, thinner than it was before he’d sworn himself to Corypheus, and he shivered nearly all the time. There was no fire hot enough to warm him, not enough layers he could wear to keep his low body heat close to his skin, and not nearly enough places in Skyhold with thick enough walls to keep the wind out. Samson was  _ always _ cold. Always. Maker, but it felt like he was dying.

And maybe he was. Without the lyrium he felt lesser. He felt useless and small and more like a burden with every passing day. The Inquisitor had judged him, looked down on him from his giant seat in the Main Hall, and given him over to Cullen to be ‘looked after’ or whatever it was he’d said. Samson had stopped listening by that point. He’d almost wished that he’d been given over to the dwarf in the Undercroft to be experimented on instead. At least then he might have been worth something more than battle plans and unsatisfactory answers that were pulled out of him by Cullen and that damned Seeker Pentaghast. Maybe the experimentation would have killed him. Maybe he would have liked that better than how he was looked at by everyone as he did the things Cullen set him to around the keep. 

It was in the night, though, that the relief came. He’d been shivering under his pile of furs on a mattress made of straw in some chambers near the Horsemaster. He’d been trying to sleep and failing, but couldn’t quite bring himself to get up on tired bones and sore muscles to find something to occupy his time. There wasn’t anything that would fill it, heal him, and the anger washed through him until the door opened and a shaft of light spread across the stone floor and into his face.

“Samson?”

Cullen. Cullen’s soft voice, sometimes doting and caring, calling for him. He knew the other man struggled to sleep sometimes too, if the bags under his eyes and the way his lips turned downward during the day were anything to go by. But Samson didn’t respond. Not yet. His mouth was dry and it was hard to force himself to open it and form the words. What would Cullen want this time of night, anyway? It wasn’t as if there were messages to run or battles to plan, and he didn’t sound like it was urgent by any means. So what was he doing here?”

“Samson?” Cullen asked again, and the strip of candlelight widened as the door creaked and Cullen let himself in. Of course he did, after all, he was Samson’s keeper. He had the ability to come wake him whenever he chose for whatever he chose. Not that he had before, but he  _ could _ have.

He grunted and finally opened his eyes to look up at the Cullen shape that was still shrouded in light from the door, “What, Rutherford?” he asked, “s’the bloody middle of the night.”

That seemed invitation enough, and Cullen closed the door behind him as he came inside fully. He went to the small table that Samson was allowed to have and lit a candle, one small light in the dark, and he stood at the foot of Samson’s mattress that was just out of range of the small light. He didn’t speak, only watched, and then lifted a hand to rub at the back of his neck. “Can’t sleep,” he offered, and Samson didn’t know if he was asking him or stating the fact for himself. 

“Who can?” Samson replied, “there’s a war on, remember?”

That earned him a chuckle, which seemed so rare these days, and he heard the telltale  _ pop _ of Cullen’s knees as he squatted down to be closer to Samson’s level, “We can go up to my rooms?” he asked, “you might sleep better in there.”

In Cullen’s office? Where? On the floor? Certainly the man wasn’t asking him to join him up in that loft, in Cullen’s bed, where the roof was still open to the elements. Surely he wasn’t. Why would he offer that?

“You think so?” he asked, “maybe on your desk? Maker knows everyone’s surprised  _ you _ don’t sleep at it.”

“No, not the desk,” Cullen answered, “I meant...maybe, you know, it could be a bit like old times?”

Old times.

Old times where they’d pushed their cots together in the barracks? Old times where they’d share a blanket and whisper to each other like sisters? Old times where the only warmth they needed was each other’s skin pressed against skin?  _ Those _ old times? Those old times were gone as far as Samson knew. The look Cullen had given him when they’d looked upon each other in battle for the first time  since they’d seen each other in Kirkwall had pretty much sealed that fate. He’d known it in his heart, the one that beat inside his own chest as opposed to the one that had been put there for him, and at the time he’d been bitter enough to accept it. But now? Now what did he say?

“You want the traitor to the Order and Corypheus’ General in your bed, Commander?” Samson asked, “you do like a bit of a bad boy, don’t you?”

“No,” was the simple answer, and there was a long pause before Cullen spoke again, “I want  _ Raleigh Samson _ in my bed, if he still exists.”

That was a name he hadn’t heard in a long time, not in its entirety, and Samson bristled for it. He hadn’t been  _ Raleigh Samson _ since Kirkwall. He’d been General Samson, of course, and then just Samson again after he’d been taken into custody. Even Cullen had only ever called him that, but hearing that name in Cullen’s voice made all kinds of memories fill his head: Cullen whispering his name in the dark after another nightmare, his mother calling to him when he was a child, the other recruits laughing with him, and then Cullen moaning and gasping his name as they moved together under the thin blankets in their room. Before, before all this, Cullen had delighted in murmuring his name in his ear. He’d liked to remind him of his past self, of the part of him not addled by lyrium and then Dust again once he was thrown out. 

For a moment he was  _ Raleigh _ again, and it was like the cold that had so seeped into his bones didn’t exist.

So he got to his feet, clad in a tunic and breeches and the thickest socks he could find, and curled what blankets he could grab in shaking hands around his shoulders. He looked like an urchin clad in rags, but he stood as proudly as he could. Then Cullen got to his feet as well and after he blew out the candle Samson could feel the weight of an arm about his waist. It was a gentle touch, one meant to guide him out of the hall and into the courtyard, but a touch nonetheless. Up until now Cullen hadn’t laid a hand on him, and where he’d been grateful for it before he found he’d missed it now that he had it again.  

They walked in silence, got to Cullen’s office in silence, and climbed the ladder to his loft in silence. It felt like should either of them talk it would destroy whatever this was, and Samson probably couldn’t have spoken anyway for how his teeth clattered together. It used to be a walk like that wouldn’t tire him out, wouldn’t make his blood run like ice in his veins, but now it did. Now he dreamed of a real bed with real blankets and, Maker help him, Cullen’s warmth against him. Maybe it was stupid to want it so badly now, but he did. He wanted it more than anything. 

They stripped, perhaps by remembered rote, and crawled into the bed with Cullen on the left and Samson on the right. They slotted together, hips easily fitting against each other’s, and Cullen’s chest was against Samson’s back. He could feel him breathing, feel the tickle of blond curls that dusted pale skin against the knots in his spine, and with that same remembered ease Samson relaxed. They lay, a pillow for each of them and just close enough to feel it, and just...stayed like that. There wasn’t much else to it.

Until something happened. Under the blankets and thick furs that they’d piled on top of Cullen’s duvet and sheets, with them both together and breathing in deep breaths, the air under the covers actually began to  _ warm _ . It was a novelty, like a memory Samson had been unable to get completely right, but it was there and it was good. It helped him relax a little more, and for the first time in a long time he felt the desire to actually  _ sleep _ and hang the nightmares.So he scooted backward a bit until they were closer still, and one of Cullen’s arms draped over Samson’s middle. Warm. Heavy.  _ Protective _ . 

He might have fallen asleep quickly too, but then there were two blocks of ice next to his feet and Samson nearly bolted upright as he rolled over and glared at Cullen. “Maker!” he prompted, “are those your fucking  _ feet _ ?” he demanded.

Cullen opened his eyes, a sleepy expression on his face, and he chuckled, “Sorry.”

They’d always been cold. Samson used to joke with him about knitting him a pair of socks, they were so cold, and Cullen had always rolled his eyes. “You are  _ not _ sorry,” he grumbled as he got back under the blankets and practically curled up around Cullen’s body. The man was warm like a hot water bottle was warm, something safe and and gentle that made him feel better. Except his feet. They would always be bloody cold no matter what.

“Some things never change.”

Once upon a time, not terribly long ago, Samson had two heartbeats. He had two heartbeats and a song in him that had nothing to do with the chantry songs they’d learned as recruits. That heartbeat gave him power, made him strong, and (though it was secondary) it kept him  _ warm _ . Now he lay in bed and had that second heartbeat back, beating against his chest but outside his body. He didn’t have the song, but he had the sound of Cullen’s breath against his ear. He didn’t  _ need _ to be strong. He didn’t  _ need _ to be powerful. But he was  _ warm _ . He was warm and safe and…

Maker help him, but for a moment he was  _ Raleigh _ again.

**Author's Note:**

> come find me on tumblr! @sallyamongpoison
> 
> Written for some of the wonderful art @levaas has done on tumblr!


End file.
